


open up your fruit (cake)

by yeahloads



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (im sorry), Anal Fingering, Light Bondage, M/M, Rimming, mild foot stuff, weirdos in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23380780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahloads/pseuds/yeahloads
Summary: It’s less painful than Jeff anticipated, asking, “Let me eat you out?”“Can I shower first?”It’s a completely reasonable request, but Jeff isn’t sure how to tell him that the whole point is that he wants Harry just as he is, natural and dirty in the best way. So he just says, “You don’t have to,” like he isn’t toeing the edge of a cliff he’s never dared to jump off.Or, Harry is sweaty and hasn't shaved in weeks, and Jeff wants every part of him.
Relationships: Jeff Azoff/Harry Styles
Comments: 23
Kudos: 95
Collections: Hairy Styles Pubefest 2020





	open up your fruit (cake)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Harry comes home from the gym hot and sweaty and person B finds him irresistible. Sex ensues including hairy pit worship and strong sweaty pube focus.
> 
> I hope I've done it justice! 
> 
> Title inspired by Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel - I decided I liked the incorrect lyric better than the actual one.

Living with Harry has its pros and cons. 

Harry is a great cook. He’s always experimenting with new recipes, saying things like _This is gluten-free but you can’t even tell_ and _This has kimchi in it, so it’s good for your gut health_. Before Harry moved in, Jeff didn’t know what quinoa was, but now he eats it at least once a week. 

That’s another thing; Jeff doesn’t actually know when Harry moved in. It was more like one day Jeff had an extra toothbrush next to his own at the sink, and the next, his closet was suddenly full of glittery blouses and printed trousers. Simply, Harry just never went back to his old place, and Jeff wasn’t about to complain. 

Harry has scattered countless scented candles in almost every room. He’s done some decorating, gotten consults from fancy designers and people he knows that come in smelling like expensive perfume and wearing sunglasses indoors. He’s turned the entire place from a rather boring and empty bachelor pad into...well, a home. It feels lived-in and cozy, with plush throw blankets on every couch and armchair, and pictures of their families hung on the walls. It’s full of art and life, old and new, contemporary and vintage. Most importantly, though, it’s full of Harry. 

Harry, who takes care of Jeff and makes sure that he takes his vitamins. The person who cleaned up the mess when Jeff caught the stomach bug, and only complained a little. The very same person who provides endless entertainment, whether he’s dancing in the kitchen while he makes margaritas, or by simply being himself. Jeff wants to soak up his good energy like a plant in the sun. 

Despite all of this, there are definitely aspects of living with Harry that are...less than ideal. Namely, his recent usage of the home gym. 

It shouldn’t be a problem. It isn’t, really. He goes in, uses the equipment, and finds his way out an hour or so later before he heads into the kitchen and forages for a snack. All in all, it’s really not that different from when he goes to the gym in the city (however, a mishap with a sneaky photograph that Harry had politely requested not be posted ending up on Twitter anyway has left him cranky and suspicious; so, he’s been exercising at home more despite his adamance that it’s his own choice). 

Jeff isn’t sure if it’s the comfort of being in his own space or a developed laxness of not having to rush home, but after his workouts, Harry has taken to delaying his showers in favor of swanning about the house while still damp and in various states of undress. 

_That_ isn’t exactly the problem either. Rather, the problem is Jeff and what he wants to _do_ when he catches Harry reaching up into a cabinet, his lower back glinting and wet and his underarm hair on display, all clumped together and probably smelling strongly of his deodorant that can’t quite fully mask the spice of sweat. 

It’s how he wants nothing more than to pull down Harry’s tiny gym shorts and spread him open for his mouth, to feel the scrape of hair against his tongue, as the span of downtime between tours has kept Harry’s intimate grooming to a minimum. 

Jeff can barely look at Harry lately without wanting to lick the sweat from behind his ears, where if you suck the skin there just right, he’ll start to tremble. Every time Harry starts to tell a story and starts animatedly talking with his hands, Jeff thinks about tying his skinny wrists to the headboard, so he’s stretched out in all of his tan-lined glory, ready for Jeff to look at and touch and everything else in between. 

He can’t exactly give voice to any of those things, though. Jeff isn’t worried about Harry denying him or offering any outright rejection. If anything, Jeff is worried that Harry might be up for it. 

So when Harry waltzes into the living room, chest and back glistening, towel around his neck, and a hair clip doing its best to keep his sweaty hair off his forehead, Jeff stares decisively at the football game on the TV and _doesn’t_ watch the way Harry’s shorts slip down his skinny hips as he stretches. He _certainly_ doesn’t pay any extra attention to the dark trail of hair leading down from his belly button, or the peek of hair creeping out from under his arm. 

He tries his best to ignore the prickle of want that travels up from his fingertips to somewhere under his ribs, sharp and insistent. Even from his spot on the couch, he can smell the heat coming off Harry’s body; this mix of clean skin from his shower the night before and something a bit more sour and tangy. 

In an effort to deflect, Jeff asks, “Are you gonna shower?”

Harry shakes his head. He’s still breathing heavily. Jeff wonders briefly what he was doing to get himself so winded; Harry gets in his own head sometimes and will run, mile after mile on the treadmill, until he can barely keep going and won’t stop until someone tells him to. Most of the time that person is Jeff, who keeps his worries to himself and lets Harry process things on his own. 

“I’ll take one in a bit. Still too hot,” Harry says. He uses the towel around his neck to wipe his face, ribs poking through the softness of his stomach, that no matter how much he works out and eats healthy, stays free of any harsh, unnecessary cut lines. 

Jeff swallows. He wants to touch him. Wants to feel the way that very same soft skin gives under the grip of his fingers; under his mouth when he slides his tongue below his navel and bites under his ribs. Just below the low-riding waistband of Harry’s shorts, Jeff can clearly see the evidence of where he’s been lazy with his grooming: the messy, dark thatch of his pubes; the slow taper on his lower belly where they either give way to lighter, softer hair, or concentrate in a line that points due north like a compass needle towards his belly button. The line is fainter in the middle of his abdomen; Jeff has to look closely if he wants to see it. Then, a more recent development is the smattering of hair on his sternum, that he’s evidently given up on shaving and waxing away. 

Jeff is hard in his pants, he realizes belatedly. Extremely belatedly, he also realizes that Harry is heading towards him. It isn’t until Harry perches himself on Jeff’s lap that Jeff’s brain catches up with the rest of him. 

Hands on Harry’s hips, Jeff tries to subtly keep him away from the bulge of his groin. “Get off me. You stink,” Jeff complains, doing his best to sound convincing. 

Either Harry doesn’t buy it or he just doesn’t care, he wiggles even closer with a smirk, draping an arm around Jeff’s shoulders, putting himself in even closer proximity so that Jeff can see where the skin of his neck is still damp and can smell the sharpness of his sweat. 

Alarm bells are going off in Jeff’s head. Every cell in his body is telling him to flip Harry over and pin him against the couch so he can properly get his fill of touch, smell, and taste. But he knows how to control himself (somewhat). He pinches the meat of Harry’s thigh, feels the muscle underneath tense and quickly relax as Harry yelps and giggles. But the resulting jolt has his leg bumping into Jeff’s dick. They both pause. 

Harry raises his eyebrows. “What have you been thinking about, hm?”

“You,” Jeff says. It’s not a lie. 

Clearly pleased, Harry smiles and inches his way closer so that the soft meat of his ass is resting right over Jeff’s erection. “Oh yeah? What about me?”

Jeff lets out a rough breath. He can do this. He’s a grown man, he can handle Harry’s pesty antics. “Now you’re just fishing.”

“I’m not allowed to know why you’re hard from just thinking about me?”

That’s—Harry just _says things_ sometimes, so casual and nonchalant, while Jeff feels like he’s going to burn up from the inside out. Harry’s eyes glint devilishly like he knows this.

Jeff snorts, his palms damp as he slides his hands up to grip Harry’s soft waist. “You don’t wanna know. Nothing exciting, I promise.”

Harry juts his bottom lip out. “You’re no fun. And here I was...about to offer my services and help you out…” He moves like he’s about to stand but Jeff catches him with a hand around his wrist. 

“What if—what if I do something for you? Instead.”

Harry’s smirk returns, playful and easy. “I’m listening.”

It’s less painful than Jeff anticipated, asking, “Let me eat you out?”

“Can I shower first?”

It’s a completely reasonable request, but Jeff isn’t sure how to tell him that the whole point is that he wants Harry just as he is, natural and dirty in the best way. So he just says, “You don’t have to,” like he isn’t toeing the edge of a cliff he’s never dared to jump off. 

Harry looks at him for a long moment, the line of his mouth wobbly and unsure. He says his next words with careful precision, like he’s picking through them slowly. “I’m still really sweaty. I might—I don’t want you to be grossed out.” 

Jeff doesn’t want to know what his own face looks like right now; doesn’t want to see the unadulterated _desire_ that’s likely written across his features. He can feel how wide his eyes are, his parted lips and shaky breaths. Because Harry isn’t saying no, just as he simultaneously hoped and feared.

Jeff won’t bother trying to articulate himself verbally. It would be a futile endeavor, as he’s not entirely sure he would be able to even if he was given ample time to think things over. He lets his hands do the talking instead, sliding them down Harry’s damp back and slipping under his shorts. Harry was right—he _is_ really sweaty. Trapped underneath a layer of mesh and nylon, Harry’s skin is slippery and hot. Slowly, Jeff inches his fingers inward, until he reaches the cleft of Harry’s ass, where he feels ever hotter. It makes Harry gasp, softly, and shiver a little. 

Jeff drops his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. After a deep breath, he says, “If it’s gonna make you uncomfortable, we don’t—I can stop”

Harry uses his index finger under Jeff’s chin to tip his head up. His eyes are dark and intense, flicking back and forth between both of Jeff’s own. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Okay,” Jeff says a bit dumbly, so thoroughly rattled by this whole thing and nothing has even happened yet. 

With an almost imperceptible nod to himself, Harry stands and squares his shoulders before slipping his shorts down his legs, revealing his lack of underwear and the first sign that he’s interested in this too, his dick pink and half-hard, jutting out from his pelvis. 

“Christ…” Jeff can’t help the groan that escapes him. He sees Harry naked every day— _multiple_ times a day—but it still feels like a gift he’s humbly receiving. And now, knowing that he can finally dip his toes into previously uncharted waters, he finds himself trembling with excitement and want. 

Harry’s clearly looking for a bit of direction, though. Still standing with his shirt and running shoes on, shorts around his ankles, he raises his eyebrows. 

Jeff can’t think. He barely feels conscious right now, with the way his heart is slamming against his ribs and all of his limbs are prickling. “Just—here. Sit.”

Carefully, Jeff shuffles Harry onto the couch (making sure he doesn’t trip) and gets him in a half-slumped sitting position. He rearranges himself so he’s on the carpet, knees already protesting the hardwood that presses from underneath, but it’s worth it as he gets in between Harry’s mostly spread legs. 

He’s clearly working to keep them open—as the waistband of his shorts is stretchy but not enough to accommodate the width of another human being—so Jeff takes pity on him and slides them off completely. That way, he can press Harry’s thighs up and back and reveal him in all of his sweat-slick glory, light glinting off the hairs that are keeping his hole partly obscured. Jeff wonders what they might look like when he gets them wet with spit, messy and dripping. He swallows in anticipation.

The heel of Harry’s shoe digging into his shoulder pulls him back to the present. Harry’s face is open and trusting, his pink lips parted slightly, the color on his cheeks spreading down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. Jeff turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to the inside of Harry’s bent knee where he’s also a bit sweaty. 

With gentle fingers, Jeff grips Harry’s calf so he can slide his shoe off and toss it behind him; it lands with a dull thump. The sight of Harry’s ridiculous tall white socks stretched over his skinny ankles makes Jeff smile. He can’t help but kiss him again, this time on the small bump of bone sticking out under thick white cotton.

He peels off Harry’s sock, exposing the soft pink sole of his foot, his rounded heel, the tiny hairs that pepper the top and all of his toes. Jeff’s mouth moves without his permission, lips finding their way to the delicate curve of the arch, firm pressure against damp skin. He hears Harry’s intake of breath, but he doesn’t need to look up to gauge his reaction. Harry’s ticklish, but all the proof Jeff needs that Harry doesn’t mind his current course of action is in the clench of Harry’s hole, right in front of his eyes. 

Just as carefully as the first, Jeff takes off Harry’s second shoe and sock, finishing with a bite on his inner thigh, roughly sucking skin into his mouth; hopefully it’ll bruise. Harry’s fingers find their way into Jeff’s hair, tugging and releasing, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make Jeff’s scalp tingle. He parts with a wet sound before focusing his attention further up. 

Jeff’s not apprehensive per se, but rather filled up with unruly excitement. He has everything he could want, laid out and ready for him, and he’s finding himself unsure of what he should do next. Resting on his stomach, Harry’s cock is hard and leaking, adding yet another layer of moisture to his skin. His abdominals keep contracting at odd intervals, rising and falling with his heavy breaths. His fingers are curled tight around the edge of the couch, baby pink painted nails shining where they dig into the fabric of the cushion. 

Harry’s face is gently expectant, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, gaze soft and steady. Like he senses Jeff’s dilemma, he says, “You can. I want it. Want your mouth.”

It’s the push Jeff didn’t know he needed, a subtle re-framing of who this is for. He can do that: give Harry what he wants, give him what he needs. 

The first thing Jeff registers is the coarseness under his tongue. Harry isn’t the hairiest person on earth by a long shot, but there’s enough of it now that Jeff can barely feel Harry’s skin underneath. However, Harry does not appear to be in the same predicament, if the way he twitches and sighs is any indication. 

The taste isn’t much different from when Jeff normally does this. He licks long and deep, swirling around the soft crinkle of Harry’s hole, just to be sure and thorough. The only noticeable difference is a richer type of saltiness, something he can tell already is going to linger, a delicious reminder for when they’re done. 

He uses his thumbs to spread Harry open, groaning into Harry’s thigh at the sight of him fluttering around nothing. Bare heels dig into Jeff’s back as Harry urges him closer, and Jeff eagerly obliges. 

Harry doesn’t need to offer any more instruction. Jeff knows this, intimately. He knows that Harry likes to be kissed, slowly, with purpose. Jeff knows that when Harry spreads his legs and whimpers, it means to use steady, firm pressure. He knows that if he wants Harry to get really loud, all he has to do is fit his lips around as much of him as possible and hum. Pushing his tongue inside makes Harry shake, exactly as he hoped it would.

Jeff could do this for hours, days even. He’d live down here if Harry would let him. But no good things last forever. After just a few minutes, Harry inhales sharply and tugs on Jeff’s hair, says, “Stop—you, _oh_. I’m gonna come.”

With a curious finger, Jeff slides through the wetness that’s gathered in Harry’s crack before lifting his head. Harry has a hand around his own cock, his motion paused for now, while his other hand is poised at his chest, long fingers plucking at his own nipple. His face is even more red now than it was when he first stepped out of the gym.

Jeff licks his lips and clears his throat, his own cheeks heating with faint embarrassment. He’s been...a bit distracted. “You okay?” he asks. 

Harry nods. “I’m good.”

“Why’d you ask me to stop?”

“Because it’s been, like, five minutes. You’re gonna ruin my reputation of having decent stamina.” 

Jeff huffs out a quick laugh. “Please. You _wish_ you had stamina. A stiff breeze in the right direction could get you off.”

Harry’s mouth drops open as he scoffs. “ _Rude_.”

“It’s okay. I’ll keep you,” Jeff assures. He places a final kiss over Harry’s hole and straightens out of his crouched position, his back cracking as he stretches. “Wanna move somewhere more comfortable?”

Harry twists his mouth, considering. “Yeah, I guess so. Old man.”

Jeff rolls his eyes and heads upstairs, not waiting to see if Harry is following behind. 

It always feels a little strange, getting into clean sheets when you know that you’re going to get them dirty. But the weirdness isn’t enough to stop Jeff from pressing Harry back against the pillows and diving face-first into his sweaty neck. 

He wants to tell Harry that he smells good right now. So good that he should never shower or shave or leave their house ever again. But that might be hedging into concern-worthy territory, so Jeff doesn’t say anything, and licks across the tattoo on Harry’s collarbone instead. 

Like in between his cheeks, the skin around Harry’s neck and shoulder tastes mostly salty with vague hints of something soapy sweet from his body wash. Jeff alternates between gentle and sharp, a soft brush of lips for every scrape of teeth on his journey from the tip of the right swallow’s wing to the hanger tattoo near Harry’s armpit. 

That’s where Jeff catches a whiff of something different—not bad, but not necessarily good, either. It’s less fresh and clean and more sour, pungent almost. It sticks to the inside of Jeff’s nose like a strong cologne. He nuzzles in closer and inhales, ignoring Harry’s soft gasp. 

“Do you still use that all-natural deodorant?’ Jeff asks. 

Intuitive to a fault, Harry lifts both of his arms above his head, crosses his wrists over one another, and rests them gently on the pillows. He looks demure and flustered at the same time, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as his stomach expands and contracts with his heavy breathing. “Yeah. Regular deodorant is bad for you. It has like, metal and stuff in it.”

“Good to know,” Jeff says, and doesn’t hesitate to lick Harry’s entire armpit. 

Immediately, Harry yelps and nearly knees Jeff in the groin with a rogue leg as he flails. Jeff pushes up with his arms and meets Harry’s eyes. 

“No?” Jeff tries his best to not sound disappointed. 

Harry shakes his head. He keeps his arms just as they were. “Not no. Just ticklish, is all.”

That’s right; Jeff had forgotten that minor detail. Before he can work through a potential solution or offer a rain check, Harry adds, “You could tie me up. You know. If you want.”

Jeff isn’t sure what good deeds he did in a past life to deserve this, but he’s eternally thankful, now more than ever. “I love you.”

Both of Harry’s dimples appear. “I love you, too.”

“No, like. You don’t understand. I really, _really_ love you.”

“Big dresser, second drawer from the top, on the right. I have some fancy scarves in there.”

Jeff doesn’t need to be told twice. He goes over to the requested drawer and sifts through his options: a few solid colors, silks, vibrant prints, even a few with fringe. He isn’t sure which ones might be off-limits for this particular purpose, so he grabs two at random and holds them up for Harry’s inspection, scanning the labels quickly. “Gucci or McQueen?”

“Gucci,” Harry says decisively. 

Conveniently, many months ago, they came to an agreement on a more traditional wooden slatted headboard when they replaced Jeff’s old mattress and bed frame. So it’s quick and easy, looping the floral fabric around Harry’s wrists and tying it to one of the rungs. If Harry wanted to, it wouldn’t be difficult to escape from. But the knowledge that he won’t try, as a challenge for himself and to comply with Jeff’s exploration, is heady and deeply attractive.

Jeff takes the time before they move on to get himself mostly undressed, as his jeans were starting to get uncomfortable. Harry watches him from the bed as he strips down to just his underwear, smirking and wiggling his eyebrows, looking far too comfortable for someone tied up. 

“Is that all for me?” Harry asks, eyes dropping purposefully to the bulge behind Jeff’s boxers. 

Jeff knees his way back onto the bed and situates himself between Harry’s parted legs, settling overtop him, letting Harry’s dick press into his belly. Jeff isn’t the most confident person by nature, but Harry makes him feel like he could be. Harry makes him feel like their whole world narrows down to the air around them. 

He doesn’t answer Harry’s question, as his own dick rubbing up against Harry’s thigh should be clear enough. Their mouths meet for a kiss, surprisingly sweet and chaste considering the circumstances, with Harry’s tongue darting out to meet Jeff’s like he isn’t afraid of tasting himself. 

“You sure this is okay? I know it’s...weird.” 

Harry leans up for another kiss. “I’m having a wonderful time, I promise. I’m into the things that you’re into. Now, are you gonna put your fingers in me and make out with my armpit or what?”

Jeff lets his forehead drop against Harry’s collarbone and laughs, all of his anxieties and fears dissipating like smoke. This is Harry, the same goofy, ridiculous person who gets shampoo in his eye once a week and almost choked on a ravioli the other day. Jeff takes a deep breath and counters, “Well why don’t you make yourself useful and get my fingers wet?”

Like getting Jeff to talk dirty to him is some sort of prize, Harry lights up, inordinately excited. He opens his mouth, his soft wet tongue resting eagerly over his bottom lip. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jeff whispers. His own hardness has been mostly at the back of his mind so far, but he practically throbs at the feel of Harry’s lips closing around his middle and ring fingers as he feeds them to him. 

Usually this would be the point where Harry would hold Jeff’s wrist and try to run the show, controlling the pace and depth and generally giving Jeff a run for his money. But with his hands tied, he’s at Jeff’s mercy for once. 

Experimentally, Jeff pushes his fingers in as far as he dares, curling them a bit to feel out the back of Harry’s tongue. Despite all of his fancy party tricks, Harry _does_ have a gag reflex, but Jeff has no interest in testing it today. He lets Harry get his fingers covered sufficiently in saliva before he withdraws them and slips his hand between Harry’s legs. 

A slippery, gentle rub gets them reacquainted, Harry’s body fluttering around the pads of Jeff’s fingers like he wants them inside already. He’s always a little looser after rimming but Jeff would never risk it, especially not without real lube. So he doesn’t tease him for long, only pressing so that the very tip slides in a few times, just to hear him whine. 

Jeff gets the lube from out of the nightstand and quickly slicks his fingers up properly. Then, after one finger goes in up to the knuckle with no problem, Jeff gives him the other, like sliding into a hot bath. 

Harry arches into it, bearing down like the smart boy he is. He’s tight but he’s also incredibly accommodating, already adjusting and giving Jeff room to move, letting him crook his fingers and start to move them back and forth ever so slightly. 

While Harry has his head thrown back on a moan, Jeff takes the opportunity to catch one of his nipples in his mouth, as they haven’t gotten much attention yet. It immediately stiffens under Jeff’s tongue, a perfect hard little bud for him to get his teeth around and to suck gently on. 

Harry full-body shudders, his legs involuntarily tightening around Jeff’s waist, pulling him closer. The resulting shift of position perfectly sandwiches Harry’s twitching, wet cock between their bellies. Jeff can feel the leaking moisture getting caught in the hairs that decorate his own stomach. 

It’s a test of Jeff’s core strength and flexibility as he juggles rubbing Harry’s prostate, giving Harry something to rut up against, and nosing into Harry’s opposite armpit. But hearing the mixture of Harry’s laugh-whimper is enough incentive for him to keep going. He licks in long swipes, laving over each sweaty hair, soft and almost downy like fur. He makes sure to get the crease, where more of Harry’s skin is visible, and is evidently extra sensitive, as Harry jumps like he’s been zapped, pulling the tie around his wrists even tighter. 

“ _God_ ,” Harry groans, nearly breathless. 

Jeff nips at the bit of skin where the hair is most sparse and tapers into the smoothness of Harry’s inner bicep, rubbing more deliberately at his prostate, adding his thumb on the outside to press below his balls. 

Harry shouts—thrusts up once, twice, three times—and spurts messily between them. Jeff fucks him through it, only stopping when Harry starts to twitch from oversensitivity and his whining develops an edge. 

Slowly, Jeff removes his fingers from Harry’s warm body, smearing some of the wetness on his inner thigh, before inching up his front and spreading the mess there with an open palm, over his tattoos and into the unruly thatch around his cock. 

Harry’s laughter returns, light and airy. “Holy shit,” he breathes. 

Jeff sits up and surveys his work: the pink spots where Jeff’s mouth has been, the sheen of what could be spit or sweat or some combination of both almost covering Harry’s entire body, absolutely stunning in all of his natural unshaven, un-trimmed glory. 

Jeff is so hard it hurts. He reaches into his boxers and pulls himself out over the waistband, not bothering with any lube; the lingering wetness from Harry’s come is enough, because he feels like he’s on a hair trigger. 

He’s not thinking about anything other than coming as quickly as possible, but as usual, Harry has other plans. 

“Do it on my armpit. I know you want to.” 

He’s absolutely too smug for his own good but Jeff doesn’t have it in him to argue or find a comeback. Instead, he shuffles forward, carefully straddling Harry’s trim waist, and jerks himself even faster. 

Jeff blacks out for a moment as he finally finishes with a grunt, his vision flashing. The image of Harry’s underarm painted in white might as well be permanently etched onto his retinas from now on. Pollock has _nothing_ on him. 

His knees feel liquid and in danger of giving out, so before he collapses and inadvertently crushes Harry, he takes the time to untie Harry’s wrists and toss the scarf over his shoulder. He swings one of his legs over Harry’s middle and returns to his own designated side of the bed, falling flat on his back, absolutely exhausted. 

Never one to care about personal space, Harry takes up his rightful spot glued to Jeff’s side, nuzzling in close like he isn’t filthy and covered in bodily fluids. 

They both catch their breath. Jeff realizes he’s smiling like an idiot. “Thank you,” he says quietly, even though that doesn’t begin to cover half of his gratitude. 

Harry lifts his head from Jeff’s chest, his cheeks still a bit flushed. “Was that okay? Was that like, what you wanted?” 

Jeff isn’t afraid of showing his whole hand. “That was better than what I could have ever imagined,” he assures. But he can’t let Harry get too big of a head about it. He adds, “I like all of your weird and gross bits.” 

Harry, however, doesn’t rise to the bait. Smiling placidly, he asks, “All of them?”

Jeff sighs. “Yeah, all of them.” 

“Even my toes?” For emphasis, Harry wiggles said toes against Jeff’s ankle. 

This is a conversation for a different day, about things that Jeff hasn’t allowed himself to examine too closely for his own sanity, but he decides there’s no better time than the present. “Especially your toes. Are you happy now?”

Harry doesn’t seem particularly shocked by this reveal. He also isn’t visibly disgusted, so that’s a good sign. If anything, he looks delightedly curious. “That’s pretty weird,” he says, teasing. 

“It’s not like I have a fetish or something.” 

Harry sits up a bit, leaning on an elbow. “Would you put my toes in your mouth?” 

Jeff nearly chokes on his own spit. One of these days, Harry is going to _actually_ kill him. Still, he stutters, “I—I mean. Yeah. I guess.”

“Sounds pretty fetish-y to me.” Harry shrugs, nonplussed. 

Quick as anything, Jeff shuffles down the bed and kneels by Harry’s feet, grabbing one around the ankle. “You’re such a shit, you know that? I’ll show you a fetish.” Before Harry can pull his foot from Jeff’s grasp, Jeff takes one pedicured and painted toe into his mouth. Harry shrieks and bursts into laughter, wiggling around like a fish out of water, but doesn’t otherwise try to get away. 

For seemingly the millionth time, Jeff is bowled over by the amount of love and trust between them, the joy and happiness at finding someone to be their most authentic selves around, and considers himself unprecedentedly lucky.


End file.
